David

We left our car in unplowed snow

and made our way on foot

up the drive

with others,

past my father,

my grandparents,

to a friends’ grave site

newly dug

in the frozen ground.

His wife and parents sat quietly,

staring

as if at a movie,

in folding chairs,

unstirred,

despite the cold.

Snow rested on branches above,

small withered crab apples dangled from the trees.

Crows commented as they flew over,

and the worker prepared

for tomorrow’s burial

with loud tools nearby.

I watched those who stood,

the ones who had never seen

the shoveling of dirt

on one who had just died.

I watched the sons stand next to one another

in suits newly purchased.

I stared over at my father

under the snow,

remembering the fall day we gathered.

I looked at my grandparents,

headstones leaning toward one another

as if whispering a secret,

forever next to people they’d known

but never liked.

Clouds of smoky air escaped our mouths.

The cold from beneath froze our feet.

They shoveled the dirt.

She watched.

We watched her.

We watched her sons.

We all watched them,

we all honored them.

Kaddish.

Two days in a life

a person is lit,

untouchable and awesome.

One a wedding day.
The other, here.

We lined both sides of the path

for them to pass through,

then we retraced our steps

back to our cars.